


the sand in the hourglass

by munzie (enjolrasenthusiast)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasenthusiast/pseuds/munzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He spent days, or maybe weeks, by the window, watching as the sun rose, set, and rose again. Sometimes he could hear Kuroo in other rooms of the apartment, sometimes he couldn’t. Sometimes, Kuroo sat beside him, watching the world tick by from behind the glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sand in the hourglass

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for suicide
> 
> dont look at me im crying

The funny thing about death is, you don’t really know you’re dead at first.

It just feels like you passed out for a little bit, you come around and at first everything’s a little fuzzy, but other than that it seems normal. Some people have the misfortune of seeing themselves - well, their bodies - when they come around. That’s always a shocker. For other people, though, it takes a little more time to realize that no one can see them around anymore.

Bokuto was one of the lucky ones.

Car crashes are one of the ugliest kinds of deaths, the kind that people want to clean up and move on from as quickly as possible. So, when Bokuto came to, the only evidence left of his fate was the beat-up guardrail next to the road and a bit of broken glass scattered around him. He sat up slowly, wincing at the dull throbbing in his head.

_Kuroo?_

He opened his mouth to call out, but no sound passed his lips. That was his first clue.

-

Another funny thing about death is, you can’t just stay dead.

Not in the sense that you come back to life or anything, of course. Bokuto would have loved that. It was a much better fate than constantly being jerked around through space to wherever Kuroo was.

The first time Kuroo called out his name was when Bokuto discovered this little fact.

“ _Koutarou!_ ”

It hurt, being ripped from where he was sitting on the hard asphalt. His vision blurred, and before he knew what was happening, he found himself in a hospital room. In the bed, hooked up to machines and decorated with all sorts of wires, was Kuroo.

“Koutarou,” he called again, the word tearing its way from his dry throat in an agonized cry. He began to claw at the IV attached to his arm, and it wasn’t until Bokuto stepped closer that he realized there were tears streaming down Kuroo’s face. The door crashed open and a nurse rushed in, passing through Bokuto’s cold figure and reaching out to stop Kuroo from hurting himself.

“Where is he?” Kuroo asked, pushing the nurse’s hands away and making a pained attempt to sit up.

“Who?”

“Bokuto,” he replied, and a chill seeped through Bokuto’s skin at the broken sound of Kuroo’s voice.

_I’m right here,_ he wanted to say, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t force out a sound. Instead, he stepped closer, standing next to the deathly white bed and reaching out to touch Kuroo’s forehead. Goosebumps rose on Kuroo’s arms at the contact, and the steady beep of the monitor increased to a frantic tempo. Bokuto pulled his hand away.

-

It didn’t hurt when anyone else said his name. He discovered this the second day Kuroo was in the hospital, arm in a sling and leg in a cast. Kenma was the first to say his name, letting a quiet “Bokuto-san” roll off his tongue. Bokuto watched Kuroo flinch at the sound of it, but there was no painful tug at his still heart. It was only when Kuroo echoed Kenma’s words that the sharp twinge found its way into his chest again.

“Where is he?” Kuroo asked again, the only other words he had spoken since Bokuto had first found him in the hospital. Every time a nurse came in to check on him he would ask the same question, in that hoarse and broken voice. Bokuto watched it all, heard every word he said. Death was unkind, he thought, to keep him on Earth and torture him like this.

“He didn’t make it, Kuroo,” Kenma said quietly, eyes focused on the floor and fingers tangled between Kuroo’s. “I’m sorry.”

Kuroo didn’t respond. He had known the answer, been given the same one by every person he asked, but it seemed like he thought eventually someone would give him the answer he wanted to hear. Eventually, Kenma left, ushered out by the nurse who had come in to check on Kuroo. Only Bokuto remained, sitting in the armchair next to the window, watching Kuroo sleep fitfully.

-

Kuroo didn’t say his name much until he was released from the hospital. It was like he shied away from it, asking the same question of “Where is he?” but never answering when asked who he was referring to. Bokuto stayed, though, partly because he had nowhere else to go but mostly because he was kept there by Kuroo’s sleep talk (cries of _Koutarou, Koutarou_ brought nurses scrambling through the doorway to see what was wrong). Every utterance of Bokuto’s name sent pangs ripping through his chest, and once he caught himself thinking _it would be better to be dead_ before realizing he already was.

When he was released from the hospital, though, it was no longer sleep talk that kept Bokuto by Kuroo’s side. Bokuto was trapped in Kuroo’s apartment, watching as he whispered a quiet Bokuto into the stagnant air, witnessing Kuroo withering away before his very eyes. He didn’t eat unless Kenma forced him to - Bokuto was thankful he had a key to the building and the wits to check in at least twice a day - and he spent most of his time staring out the window at the street below.

Bokuto tried touching him sometimes, never for too long in case the effect was worse than just goosebumps and a pale face. It was communication, though, his own way of telling Kuroo that he was still there, even if Kuroo had no idea what it meant. He would sit beside Kuroo at the window, or at the table, or on the couch, thinking his words rather than speaking them. At night, when exhaustion finally overtook Kuroo, Bokuto would watch over him as he slept, thinking bitterly of how he had become a mockery of a guardian angel.

Once, he sank into bed beside Kuroo and feigned sleep. He refused to do that again when he rose the next morning to find Kuroo with a fever and a face paler than a corpse.

-

The funeral was probably the worst of it.

It was a closed casket affair - thank god, Bokuto thought, because he wasn’t sure if he could handle seeing his own dead body - but he still sat in the pews beside Kuroo as he muttered “ _Koutarou, oh god, Koutarou_ ,” over and over into his tear-soaked tissue. The sharp pains in his chest had long since died down into dull aches, but every utterance of his name still hurt.

He put his hand on Kuroo’s leg, counting the seconds before he removed it, listening to the sharp, shaking gasp Kuroo took in when he pulled away.

-

Kuroo didn’t say his name again after the funeral, but Bokuto still stayed. He had taken to pacing Kuroo’s apartment, watching television when it was on and staring out the window when it wasn’t. He found a strange kind of joy in watching the people mill about outside, as if the pane of glass between them and Bokuto was a movie screen. He didn’t feel as dead, either, when he didn’t try and speak.

He spent days, or maybe weeks, by the window, watching as the sun rose, set, and rose again. Sometimes he could hear Kuroo in other rooms of the apartment, sometimes he couldn’t. Sometimes, Kuroo sat beside him, watching the world tick by from behind the glass.

Kenma got him to leave, eventually, after months had passed and the shadows under Kuroo’s eyes had grown purple and angry.

-

“ _Koutarou_.”

It was little more than a whisper, but it was enough to rip Bokuto from the dark safety of Kuroo’s apartment and into the cold winter air. It had been six months, enough for his senses to grow dull, and the pain ripped through him with more force than he had felt since the hospital.

Kuroo sat on the guardrail, hands gripping the dented metal. The glass had long since been cleared away from the road, but Bokuto could still picture the scene from months before, clear as day.

“Fuck,” Kuroo said, words being whipped away into the dark of the night. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

A car raced by, little more than a blur of headlights against velvet black.

“You shouldn’t have died, Koutarou.”

_Look at me,_ Bokuto wanted to scream, but he could do nothing.

“It should have been me.”

Another car zoomed past, headlights brighter than before. Kuroo stepped down from the guardrail.

_Look at me, Kuroo, I’m here!_

In the distance, the glow of a third set of headlights could be seen. Kuroo ambled towards the road, as if in a trance, and Bokuto raced after him.

_If you set foot on that road, Kuroo, so help me-_

The cry of a car horn, the screech of brakes, shattering the silence of the night. A sound tore itself from Bokuto’s throat, an anguished cry that manifested itself in a single name.

Kuroo lay on the cold asphalt, unmoving.

-

The funniest thing about death, Bokuto thinks, is that it makes you wait for another soul before it finally takes hold.

 

 


End file.
